


the comeback kid

by sidnihoudini



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 07:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2499086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 10x03: Soul Survivor | Sam glances up as Dean enters the room, and then goes back to studying the photograph.  This is the same one that he had been hung up on yesterday, the picture of he and Dean laughing.  He still can’t remember who took it, but it’s important that it’s here, that Dean has kept it all of these years.  To hell and back, Dean had said a long time ago, and it’s nights like this when Sam knows he meant it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the comeback kid

The woman standing ahead of Sam in line at the grocery store is growing impatient.

She’s tapping her fake acrylic fingernails against the countertop rhythmically as she inches forward, easing into the space of the guy standing in front of her buying lottery tickets. Sam wrinkles his nose - he can smell her perfume from here - flowery, almost acidic in its fragrance and the way it sticks strangely to the back of Sam’s tongue.

As she steps up to the cashier, Sam slides his purchases forward on the counter.

Two deli sandwiches stacked deep with toppings, pie, some beef jerky, a silver bag of lukewarm potato wedges, and a six pack of beer. None of that craft stuff, either - this is the kind of thing they’d drink roadside, from Dean’s ancient plastic cooler. When Sam tastes this beer, he thinks about Dean’s hands covered in engine oil, and brushing his own teeth at the side of the road.

Sam offers a half smile as he steps up to the cashier, shaking the memories off. The impatient woman who had been in front of him is now hurrying away, head bowed as she unwraps her new pack of cigarettes.

The cashier doesn’t return his smile. She’s in another world, staring somewhere over Sam’s head as she cracks her gum and begins sliding his purchases across the barcode scanner, the end of her ponytail swishing back and forth over the curve of her shoulder as she moves, reaching for Sam’s things one by one. She’s pretty - young, but pretty - and Sam watches her as her body relaxes, resting one palm over the keypad as she rattles Sam’s total off and asks if he has a loyalty card.

Sam does, actually - it’s likely that he has a loyalty card for every grocery chain in the United States at this point, all registered under various names and telephone numbers - but his brain is too fried to do anything other than pay. He shakes his head and hands her two twenty dollar bills instead, fingers curling against the glass counter top after she accepts the money from him. She’s still staring off into space, clearly on auto-pilot as she counts off his change and then finally offers him a pulse of a smile as he snags his plastic bag by the handle, and starts towards the exit doors.

Outside, an older guy stands, smoking a cigarette beside a Salvation Army donations box. He’s standing close enough to the front doors that whenever he moves, they open, and it sets up a strange rhythm of motion as Sam walks out. A few feet down, a mom sits on a wooden bench with her toddler. She’s trying to have a conversation on her cellphone while wrangling the child by the back of his jacket one-handed; tone loud but relaxed as she chats.

In the parking lot a half dozen people mill about, digging quarters out for their grocery carts, checking their text messages as they zig-zag between parked cars.

All of these people, acting like today is just another day.

Sam nervously twists the bag around in his hand as he crosses the parking lot. He feels alien among all of these men and women, these normal people who are simply picking up another meal or running one more errand. Today, he is one of them, even if it’s only for a brief moment in time. He is buying food and booze and all of the other things that normal people regularly buy, and today, he is bringing it back to Dean.

Pie eating, carb loading, booze guzzling Dean. Not the broken shell of his brother he had been trailing for weeks.

He gets to the edge of the parking lot, and can’t help the way that he suddenly breaks down laughing at the thought of it all - of everything. Relief floods through him like rolling waves in a stormy ocean, and he needs to set the bag and beer down on the ground as he bends over at the waist and hyperventilates, palms braced against his knees, hair hanging in his eyes.

Dean’s back, Sam thinks again, and the weight of that thought makes it impossible to move. For a moment he is completely paralyzed with the reality of this - of buying pie, like they’re burning through Wisconsin and Dean is barking orders at him through the driver’s side window - and Sam just can’t help it as a grin spreads across his face and he exhales again, breathing shaky but steady.

~

The bunker is eerily quiet when Sam gets home.

To be fair, it is no less quiet than it has otherwise been for the last few weeks; but, knowing that Dean is here, somewhere, makes the silence strange, heavy. Loud. The entrance door slides closed behind Sam, and he almost jumps at the sound of the bolt lock echoing throughout the otherwise empty front hall.

Silence is strange under these circumstances. When Dean is home he cooks, or listens to music so loud that Sam’s books rattle across the dining room table.

“Dean?” He calls, glancing around as he sets the bag of food down.

Sam frowns. Everything looks the same as it did when he left half an hour ago, he thinks - nothing obviously out of place, and it doesn’t seem like anything is missing. The same lights are still on in the hallway where he had left Castiel on his way out; pausing awkwardly once outside to wave at Hannah through the windshield of Cas’ car.

There’s a long moment of answering silence that has Sam’s stomach sinking deep into his toes. It’s quiet - way too quiet - and Dean must have tricked him, somehow, he must have escaped even though Castiel had been here. Sam’s brain begins to move a thousand miles a minute, lurching through each gear until it comes to a screeching stop the moment he catches movement out of the corner of one eye.

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean greets, sounding tired, still rough around the edges. But more importantly, like Dean.

The dead weight that had pooled in Sam’s chest immediately lifts and disappears at the sound of Dean’s voice.

Sam glances over and smiles. It’s a knee jerk reaction when he sees his brother standing there, in the flesh, with both of his hands wedged in his jean pockets like isn’t quite sure what to do. Dean meets Sam’s gaze and begins to inch forward, cautious, waiting for Sam to nod back at him before he steps any further. Once Dean is in Sam’s orbit, Sam reaches forward and begins pulling the stuff he bought out of the plastic grocery bag.

“I got food,” He starts, glancing over at Dean again as Dean comes to stand next to him, eyes trailing down to where Sam is laying everything out. “Sandwiches, pie, jerky, wedges and beer. You must be hungry, man.”

This, right here, this is what they do when something big happens. A million years ago, back when Dean had first sold his soul, they’d eaten fried chicken out of a bucket the afternoon Sam woke up and they’d started planning their next move in trailing yellow eyes. Food always has been and always would be Dean’s coping mechanism, and that worked perfectly for Sam, because Dean has always been his.

Sam takes a step back and waits for Dean to say something. He’s nervous, jumpy, and copes by twisting the empty grocery bag around the length of his fingers.

“Thanks, Sammy,” Dean finally says, voice soft as he flicks his gaze over their tabletop spread and then back up to Sam. He nods and steps forward to pull one of the dining chairs out, and adds, “This looks great.”

A smile. Sam’s chest feels lighter than it has in months. He raises his eyebrows and steps forward, asking, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, man,” Dean replies, taking a seat and reaching for one of the two wrapped sandwiches. He snags the roast beef - Sam is more of a poultry guy, and always gets chicken breast for himself - and then looks up, waiting for Sam to join him. Sam jolts a grin and steps forward, moving for the chair beside Dean’s. Dean watches him, and shrugs, “I don’t think I’ve eaten in, well. You know. A while.”

Snorting his agreement, Sam slides closer to the table, and reaches out for the beer. He looks over at Dean and raises an eyebrow, asking, “Do you wanna?...”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, sounding reverent as he begins to unwrap his sandwich. Sam smiles again and nods, pulls two of the six bottles out and twists the caps off of both before he sets one down for Dean. Dean glances up as Sam’s hand brushes his sandwich wrapper, and adds a, “Thanks.”

Sam settles back in his chair, and favors his beer over the food laid out in front of him as he drains the neck in a few gulps. He hadn’t let himself drink over the last few months, had left that page open in Dean and dad’s playbook. Drinking made him too messy, and there had been too much at stake, but now - with Dean sitting beside him - Sam drinks, letting the last of the tense spots in his shoulders relax.

“You gonna tell me what happened to your arm?” Dean asks quietly, eyes hooded as he looks over at Sam. He’s holding his sandwich with both hands - once Dean picks food up, he doesn’t put it down until he’s done - as he regards Sam carefully.

Setting his beer bottle down, Sam shrugs his good shoulder. There’s not much to tell, so he replies, “It’s a long story.”

“I got time,” Dean answers, leaning back in his chair. He lets his wrists rest against the edge of the table as he looks at Sam properly for the first time since he was in the chair.

Sam feels his cheeks flush - he hasn’t seen his brother’s gaze in a while - and then nods, reaching for his beer again out of habit.

“Alright, sure,” Sam starts, watching Dean’s eyes brighten as he takes the first bite of his sandwich. The familiar way that Dean all but unhinges his jaw to get the entire sandwich into his mouth makes Sam laugh a little, ducking his head so he doesn’t get caught. When Dean glances back over at Sam, he’s got mustard on his bottom lip.

It doesn’t matter how long it will take, Sam decides. He’s gonna tell Dean all of the stories he can about the things that Dean’s missed over the last few months, and then, when he’s done, Sam’s gonna keep talking some more.

~

Dean finishes tearing their spread apart and then heads to the shower, reasoning that it’s the kinda thing a guy should probably make a priority after getting back from the darkside so recently. It’s familiar, the ebb and flow of their nightly routine, as Sam clears the table of their garbage and then sends Castiel a text message as he drains the remainder of his second beer.

His text is short, to the point - Castiel understands nothing else - and most importantly, hopeful.

He leaves his cellphone on the kitchen counter and snags the last two beers before he heads to Dean’s bedroom. On the way there, he also detours to get a fresh set of sheets from their laundry room. They aren’t exactly swimming in fancy linens, but the ones on Dean’s bed have been there for months - since before Dean even went dark side - and Sam can’t stand to look at them anymore.

In fact, he thinks, easing Dean’s bedroom door open, they might just go straight into the garbage. He flips the overhead light on and looks over at the bed as he sets the beers down on Dean’s side table. Sam had spent a lot of time laying on that bed alone over the last few weeks. He’d fallen asleep to the popcorn stucco of Dean’s ceiling, staring forever, quiet debates where he considered getting one of Dean’s vinyls out just to make the empty room sound like home again.

Fuck it, Sam thinks, before he changes the sheets one handed and throws Dean’s old bed clothes out into the hallway.

It doesn’t take long to do. A few moments later he’s settling down on the edge of Dean’s bed, toeing his shoes off and curling his fingers against the pattern of Dean’s blanket. This doesn’t ever feel like he’s intruding, when he’s in Dean’s space like this. It just feels like reaching out, stretching one arm from the passenger seat of the car to the driver’s seat, where Dean used to stash his photos and his tapes and his favorite things.

Sam smiles a little and reaches out for the photographs that he had been looking at earlier. They’ve moved, now they’re sticking out from underneath Dean’s worn, linen bound copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, but Sam can still see them - the familiar faces of his parents, of Dean’s smile - laid side by side against the table top.

He isn’t surprised when Dean comes back into the room dripping wet, a bath towel wrapped around his waist.

Sam glances up as Dean enters the room, and then goes back to studying the photograph. This is the same one that he had been hung up on yesterday, the picture of he and Dean laughing. He still can’t remember who took it, but it’s important that it’s here, that Dean has kept it all of these years. To hell and back, Dean had said a long time ago, and it’s nights like this when Sam knows he meant it.

“You remember that?” Dean asks, rubbing water out of his ear.

To be honest, Sam doesn’t. Dean always referred to him as the girl, hell, ultimately the wife in their relationship, but Dean was the one with the photographic memory. He’s the one who remembered birthdays, anniversaries, dates and important events - and it isn’t a surprise that he remembers the details behind this photograph even though Sam can’t.

Sam shakes his head, frowning a little as Dean comes over. One of his hands are holding the towel up around his waist as he reaches for the photograph with the other, his fingers tugging the well worn paper out of Sam’s hands. Sam glances up and catches Dean’s mouth lifting into a half smile, warm and true.

“I do. This was a few weeks before we found dad in Chicago,” Dean explains, his eyes ghosting over the photograph before he looks back at Sam, his eyebrows arched. “I think we were in Oregon chasing a drop bear. It was right after we found that Wendigo in Blackwater Ridge.”

Even though Sam remembered the Wendigo - it had been when he was still having nightmares about Jess, and the thing had snatched Dean not too soon after - he couldn’t remember one drop bear from another. He shakes his head again, and shrugs a little bit before he reaches forward to set the other photographs back down against Dean’s bedside table.

“Who took it?” Sam asks, curious.

Dean is lost in the photo, a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth until he glances up, and catches Sam watching him. He recovers with a shrug, even though a tiny smile is still there, and leans forward, leaning the photograph upright against the base of his lamp.

“I can’t remember her name,” He finally says, taking a step back. Sam watches Dean’s muscles flex underneath the towel. “She worked at the camp that the thing was rampaging, and gave it to me as a thank you the day we were leaving. At the time I thought it was pretty gay.”

Snorting, Sam raises his eyebrows and replies, “If the shoe fits.”

That makes Dean laugh, as he raises his eyebrows back and looks down, saying, “To be fair, Sammy, that was a long time before we started to do… whatever it is that we do.”

“Right,” Sam nods, sober again. He licks his bottom lip and flicks a glance back over at the photo, where Dean has set it upright, and murmurs, “Whatever it is that we do.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth turn down in a frown as he looks over, his voice soft, and hushes, “Don’t give me that. I just got back, man.”

“I didn’t - I didn’t mean…” Sam starts to say, before he cuts himself off and closes his eyes, squeezing them tight. He shakes his head, and when he opens his eyes to take a deep breath Dean is over by his dresser, pulling a black t-shirt out of the top drawer. Dean pulls it over his head one handed as Sam rallies his thoughts. “It’s just been rough lately.”

Dean nods in agreement as he reaches for the next drawer, and pulls out a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Sam runs a hand through his hair, breathing suddenly manual as he watches Dean drop the towel and bend to pull them on, one leg at a time. His body still looks like Dean’s body, there are no strange markings, not like how he had come back the last two times Sam lost him.

“Cas said I should take some time off,” Dean continues, leaving his towel in a pile on the floor as he scratches the back of his neck and walks back over to the bed, finally sitting down on the mattress beside Sam. “Sounds like heaven and hell are both outta cards.”

Shrugging, Sam looks over at Dean’s profile. Dean’s version of ‘taking some time off’ has historically not been the same as the dictionary definition of ‘taking some time off.’ Sam considers this, and asks, “And what do you wanna do?”

“Right now?” Dean asks, temporarily caught off guard before he settles back an inch, his torso relaxing. He arches his eyebrows at Sam and then stretches backwards, sliding one palm over the flat stretch of the mattress. “Right now, I just wanna get back into this bed. Memory foam.”

That makes Sam laugh - a real, genuine laugh that startles right out of him - as he looks at Dean’s hand, familiar against the bed sheets, and then up at Dean’s face, familiar in the low light of the room. It strikes Sam right then, that a few days ago, hell, a few hours ago, he hadn’t been sure that he would ever see this again. Castiel had been en route and prepared to strike Dean down with force, if necessary.

When he glances over and realizes that Dean is watching him, he can’t help but smile. Sam’s voice is curious as he asks, “What?”

“I just missed you, man,” Dean shrugs, easy in the way he moves. Ten years ago, Dean wouldn’t have been able to say that, and the realization floods Sam’s stomach with salt rock and certainty. Dean’s voice is low, worn out from all of the yelling that he had been doing, both in the chair and through the hallways. The hallways. Sam will never forget the feeling of holding that blade against his brother’s throat.

He swallows, and tries to push the memory away. Dean’s demonic expression floods back into his head so fast it might as well give him whiplash.

“I was right here the whole time, Dean,” Sam replies, blinking the memory away. He doesn’t need those memories anymore, because Dean is still right here, human flesh and bone, warm and sun-tanned and damp from the shower.

They watch each other for a moment; Sam realizes that his words clearly struck something, as Dean’s eyes go soft, his face finally relaxed, nothing at all like that hard shell the demon had been parading around with. Sam wants to touch Dean compulsively, trace all of the familiar lines in Dean’s face until he could be sure he’d committed it to memory.

“I know, Sammy,” Dean answers after a moment. He leans over, and bumps their shoulders together, then adds, “Believe me, I know.”

Sam knew Dean had been in there, somewhere. He hadn’t been in the driver’s seat but he must have seen some of the things that he’d done, had to have remembered some of the things that he’d done to Sam in those hallways, the things he’d said in that bar. The memory of Dean sitting at the piano makes Sam’s arm hair stand on end, so he shakes that off, too, and wraps his good arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same for me,” Sam whispers after a second, tugging their bodies closer together.

That makes Dean smile, an honest smile, as he looks at Sam out of the corner of his eyes and then shrugs, clearly trying to play it cool.

Tonight, Sam has no time for Dean’s sudden bashfulness. He leans over and presses his mouth against the side of Dean’s head, the familiar smell of Dean’s soap, his hair a little longer than Sam was used to, but still ultimately Dean.

“Back to square one,” Sam sighs, letting his eyes close. He feels Dean relax against him, too. “Back to being me and you against the world, man.”

Dean’s voice is muffled, tired, but Sam is almost sure that he hears Dean reply, “Me and you, Sammy.”

*

_you are more than a list of mistakes  
and if anyone tells you otherwise  
let it be the last one they make_


End file.
